Connie Hall - Rare Breed

“Do you miss your family?” Wynne asked.

Tungana nodded, an unmistakable sadness in his eyes. Then he seemed to realize that he’d actually answered her and slipped back into self-protective mode.

The din of the party drifted away as he led her up a flight of stairs and into a deserted wing of the house. She recalled the area from the tour.

He paused before a door. “Tungana draw you a bath. You like?” he asked, his words clipped.

“I can manage alone. All I need is a hairbrush and a washcloth and towel.”

“Brush in closet.” He opened the door to the room and waited for her to step inside.

“Thank you. I can find my way back.”

The bedroom was done in a Spanish motif. Red wall-paper complemented the rich mahogany furniture and fourposter bed. A woman’s photograph hung above the bed. Her hair was coal-black and worn in a French twist. Golden eyes, similar to Hellstrom’s, stared out from the photo. Her dark hair accentuated her pale skin. The photographer had captured an isolated, detached gleam in the woman’s eyes. They reminded Wynne of a doll’s eyes, inanimate and blank. Wynne didn’t remember the painting on the tour and said, “Who is that?”

“BaK para’s mama.”

“Oh.”

Tungana walked to the closet and opened the door. A row of women’s dresses hung neatly in the closet.

“Wow, does Hellstrom keep those for his female guests?” It looked like thousands of dollars worth of designer labels.

“He best host.” Tungana nodded and seemed to be looking for one particular evening dress. He pulled out a slinky red gown and a pair of red heels.

The gown might fit her, but it was a little more revealing than she would like. It was ankle length and low-cut with rhinestone spaghetti straps. The same red rhinestones formed starburst patterns randomly all over the dress.

Tungana laid the evening dress on the bed. “For you?”

“But I don’t—”

“BaK para want you to wear.”

Leave it to Hellstrom to anticipate every female guest’s need by supplying them with dresses. If it would bide her some time to search the house, she’d comply. “All right.” She nodded.

Tungana left the room and closed the door behind him.

She pressed her ear to the door and listened as the soft tread of his footsteps faded.

She hurried into the bathroom. When she looked into the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. A mud wrestler, after a fight, probably looked better than she did. She recalled MacKay’s comments about her cleaning up okay. Her female vanity wanted to show him just how well she cleaned up. But then she reminded herself, it didn’t matter what a woman looked like, he’d flirt with anything breathing and wearing a bra.

She scrubbed the remnants of mud off her face, neck, arms and her boots. Then she untied her hair. She brushed the bits of mud out of it around her face. There wasn’t much she could do about the limpness. Her hair always had the texture of thick straw. It hung down her back, stick-straight.

She quickly changed into the dress, wrapping her slingshot around her thigh and sliding her knife into it. The shoes actually fit her size nine feet, but the heels felt strange. It took a few strides to get used to them.

She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. Wide hazel eyes stared back at her from an oval tanned face. She didn’t like the pronounced dimple in her chin and her mouth seemed too wide, genetic gifts from her father that couldn’t be helped. But her tanned skin was clear and glowed from the scrubbing—so she wasn’t drop-dead beautiful and her cheeks weren’t sunken and she didn’t have sticks for arms and legs like Jacqueline. She was built of sturdier stuff. She’d like to see Jacqueline freeing a baby rhino from a mud bog.

The thought brought a smile to her face as she decided she didn’t look half-bad in the dress. She had to go braless and a hint of her nipples showed through the lined silk. The dress actually clung to her curves in a flattering way, and the starbursts on the dress only made her body shimmer. Not bad. It was the first time since coming to Africa she had felt feminine. It felt pretty good. She cracked the door, checked that it was clear, then slipped back out into the hallway.

The moments ticked off in Wynne’s mind, keeping time with her heartbeat. She remembered one room that had been off-limits during the tour. Hellstrom had said it was his office, and they wouldn’t find anything of interest in it.

She reached the door.

Locked.

She heard guards laughing in the hall ahead of her. Before they rounded the corner, she darted into the opposite door. She was standing inside a linen closet. She moved so the shelves wouldn’t cut the back of her knees and she realized her dress was caught in the door. She couldn’t open the door. The guards were too close, their voices right in front of the closet. What kind of excuse could she use for being in there: “Can you point me to the ladies’ bathroom, I seem to be turned around.” That was lame. Oh, God!

She held her breath.

The voices faded.

She dared let herself breathe and opened the door.

A clear coast.

She stepped out, lifted her dress and pulled out her dagger. She shoved it in between the doorjamb and the lock. The lock clicked open.

Wynne stepped inside. A desk lamp bathed the room in dim light. It was a massive room. Shelves of books lined the walls. Above the shelves was a gun case that covered the whole perimeter of the room. Guns of every make and description were arranged in a collage of shapes, numbered brass placards beneath them. He must be anal about his guns.

African tribal masks formed a patchwork of color on the wall behind a massive mahogany desk. She recognized the local Bemba tribal masks, and the monkey shaped expressions of the Boa. They weren’t the mass-marketed copies bought off the Internet. These were aged, the wood cracked from wear. The real thing. Probably worth a fortune and sacred to the people who had made them.

Across from the masks, a computer and copier sat on a credenza. She didn’t have time to bring up the computer. Hellstrom probably had a code to open it anyway.

She stepped over to the desk. Books on Africa were stacked in piles. An Underwood manual typewriter—a dinosaur—sat in the middle of them. A spot had been cleared for a small mountain of typed pages. A manuscript? She picked up the first page and read: Musings of an African Safari Owner by Noah Hellstrom. Add author to Hellstrom’s accomplishments.

On the edge of the desk, she spotted a picture of Hellstrom standing over a felled elephant. She grimaced. Next to it was a photo of a couple. She recognized his mother, the same deadpan face from the portrait in the bedroom. The man wore the uniform of the British army, medals emblazoned across his chest and shoulders. He had a sour expression like his face would crack if he ever smiled. Hellstrom’s father?

Guards approached the door, talking.

She tensed, ready to jump beneath the desk.

They strode past.

She let out her breath and walked to a filing cabinet. She had no idea what she was looking for, but when she found it she would know.

LZCG ledgers were in the top drawer. Another drawer, more ledgers for his tour businesses and a row of books. She read the titles: Mein Kampf by Hitler, biographies of Churchill, Patton, Mussolini, Genghis Kahn and Alexander the Great. Did Hellstrom have a secret god complex?

Another drawer revealed old tax forms, business licenses and rubber-banded envelopes of past due notices on loans from the World Bank. There were a lot of them. Hellstrom must be in financial trouble. Three of them were from Springhill Mental Health Sanitorium. Why did he have past due notices from a mental hospital?